


The Waste Land

by anniesburg



Category: The Last of Us
Genre: Bed-sharing, Blood, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Injury, Nurse!Reader, gore mention, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 12:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: Joel has many friends in strange places, living out in the wasteland.





	The Waste Land

He figures he’s dead already. The way your eyes touch his face (ruined countless times before) moves nothing in him. Joel’s just cold. 

You cup his cheek regardless of his wishes, he’s been giving you hell for a decade. You’ll touch him to heal him and be done with it. He feels your warm fingers curl around his jaw, turning his face towards the orange sunset. 

Where you call home isn’t a house, it’s an old sugar refinery and you’ve hollowed out the office. Sometimes infected bodies stumble into the vats where they used to do the processing. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel, most of the time. 

Joel’s as riddled with bullets as any vat out on the factory floor. He’s been shot-up and bloodied, he’s dragged himself to you so many times. You observe him with a clinical gaze, taking in his busted cheekbone and twin black eyes. The noise of concern low in your throat, of pity is like salt poured in the many wounds. 

“You just gonna stare at it?” He asks, rudeness is his default. It’s his safety net. But he still has to wonder why seeing your expression harden in any way benefits him. Joel’s knee-jerk reaction is to hurt you.

“I’ve already stitched up your guts, scruffy,” you retort, letting his face go without any force. It would be easy as anything to kick him while he’s down. Goodness knows he’s still swinging, even among pleasant company. But you don’t. You handle him carefully. 

“Got any ice?” Joel prompts, you’re supposed to be the doctor. You scoff. 

“Nah, you’re just gonna have to tough it out,” you reply, “you stayin’ the night?” 

“Got dark an hour ago. You owe me one for somethin’ or other,” Joel shrugs. You shrug, too. 

“Cashin’ in a favour, fine,” and that’s all. 

You exist in a single room, burrowed into like a mouse. A large portion of it’s devoted to a gurney by the window, half-surrounded by old first aid bags and rolls of cling film. You pulled out all the stops for him, real bandages keep his insides from falling out instead of duct tape and parchment paper. 

The little kitchenette is stuffed into the corner like an afterthought, after the medical station and your bed. It’s on the desk that used to stand at the centre of the room, just a portable burner and a kettle. It’s harder to find propane to power it, now, but you grin at him and show him a fresh can like it’s a prize. He grunts, unsure how you find joy in something like that. You stuff it in the side of the burner. 

“You got any issue with pork and beans?” You ask over your shoulder, reaching for a can of something in a battered banker box. Joel shakes his head.

“None, not that it matters,” he pipes up.

“You’re a guest, wouldn’t make you somethin’ you don’t like,” you tell him, rifling through another box of loose utensils and rudimentary gadgets. You open the can and tip the contents into a pot. The wet, slopping sound is far from appetizing. 

Joel declines to mention that all the picky eaters died out quickly. His grim tendencies can’t even count as humour any more, but you still trot over to sit with him on the couch while dinner’s warming. 

He feels a little uneasy by the window, near the gurney on an old sofa that’s infested with cockroaches. He shifts and the pain is almost unbearable. 

“How’s the infestation?” Joel has time to catch up now that he’s not bleeding onto your floor. You glance at the shrivelled mint plants. 

“The ants or the corpses?” You return. He lifts an eyebrow. 

“Ants,”

“Found a big jug of vinegar at the minimart, it’s not insecticide but it gets the job done. Hardest part’s keepin’ them out of the sugar I intend to trade,” you say with an air of good-natured finality. Joel nods. 

“There’s a letter from Tess in my bag, hope I didn’t bleed on it,” he watches the way your face lights up even further. You could power Austin with that smile. Immediately, you rise to find it. 

“Can I—” you know your manners, you pad over to the rucksack by the door but pause before tearing into it. Asking permission before rifling through someone’s stuff is a learned politeness. Joel nods. 

You dig through packets of beef jerky and bullets, finding a crumpled manilla envelope near the bottom. You snatch it up with glee. 

“I don’t know what you two talk about,” he starts, “but leave me out of it.” 

The orange envelope is opened carefully, likely so you can reuse it. You’re finicky that way. Joel watches, hollow-eyed as you consume the contents of the letter. Your grin keeps growing. 

“She’s one hell of a lady, Jay,” you tell him. He shrugs again, a little less carefully and the pain’s like a ripple effect. 

“Believe me, you got no idea,” he replies, “could sneak you back into the zone some time. You could meet her.” 

Your eyes lift from the letter, Joel suspects you’re rereading it already. Your expression makes it sound like that’s the nicest thing he ever said to you. Doesn’t that make him feel like shit.

“Maybe,” is all you say. He’s never offered before, but you’ve still handed out excuses pertaining to why you stay out of the quarantine zone. Military men make you nervous, though you do love a man in uniform. 

You’re scared, he knows it. Outside of him, you don’t live like a normal woman. Going back to streets, to ration lines and (God forbid) a curfew would be like walking into a movie. It would be a solemn return to normalcy you’ve willfully discarded. 

But when he’s here, you eat dinner at seven o’clock. You sleep in a bed. 

You reach out and pat his arm, still engrossed in the contents of your little letter. It’s been a while since you’ve spoken to the woman who keeps Joel warm in the zone. He wonders, deep down, what she has to say to the woman who does it outside. 

He’s not stupid enough to ask. The letter’s tucked lovingly into your pocket and you leave him again. Joel sinks into the disgusting sofa and turns his eyes to your back as you stir dinner in the saucepan. You wait until it’s unbearably hot before plating and returning to him. 

It’s been a while since he last ate, he’s been limping to your front door for what feels like ages. No time to stop when one’s bleeding out. It doesn’t occur to him until the second bite how ravenous he is, your arm on his shoulder and voice in his ear telling him to slow down does very little good. 

Joel’s finished in minutes, scraping the plate with his spoon. But when he looks up at you, your expression’s undeniably fond. Annoyed, but fond. He hasn’t seen that configuration in a while. 

“Lemme catch up, big guy,” but you eat slowly by comparison. To his amusement, you scrape your plate, too. 

“Still got coffee?” He asks when you’re done, the most gentlemanly act he can offer up. You nod, near-enthusiastically. 

“And sugar, plenty of that to send you home with,” you confirm, “we can have a cup before bed. Don’t got any milk, though, not even the powdered stuff.” 

“Didn’t think so,” he replies, “hard to believe how long it’s been since I had shit like that. Never would’ve drank my coffee black before.” 

“Used to make a decent latte,” you grin at him, taking his plate and moving so he doesn’t have to. You’ve been back and forth all evening with no complaint. This time, you turn the kettle on and fetch the only two cups that haven’t shattered yet. 

It’s instant coffee, nothing special. But you dump more sugar than you usually would into the bottom of each mug, alongside a tablespoon of something in an unmarked tin. Joel cranes his head as far as he can without pain, but he still can’t see what it is. 

“You’re finally gonna poison me,” he says with an acceptance that makes you laugh. Actual, honest laughter, it’s so indulgent that he nearly winces. 

“It’s a surprise,” you reply, “nothin’ fancy, but the minimart’s a holy grail. Glad I stayed away so long,”

You’re weird that way, steering clear of convenience stores in the area until you’re just out of supplies. He’s never participated in the time-honoured tradition of Tuesday grocery shopping. From what he can tell, it’s just a way to say sane. 

He doesn’t think about what he’s done to keep the nightmares from visiting during waking hours. A hell of a lot worse than going out once a week, he figures. He never patched up a stranger and tried to turn them into a friend, that’s for goddamn sure. 

Still, it works out about as often for you as it does for him. 

“You remember when we first met?” You ask as you cross the dirty floor again, this time with mugs. Joel gives a noise of affirmation. 

“I tried to kill you,” he replies, no sorry this time. There’s no hard feelings. “rear naked choke hold, I almost snapped your neck.” 

“But then you taught me how to do it,” you continue, “had to use it for the first time last week.” 

“No kidding,” he sounds a little impressed around the edges, finally taking a sip of his coffee. “Wait a minute,” another sip, “is that chocolate?” 

“Cocoa powder,” you dismiss with a small smile. Clearly you want to get back to your story.

“Holy grail, right?” You laugh again for the second time this evening, Joel’s nearly flattered. 

“Mhm,” you sip your coffee slowly, blowing on it like a child. It’s endearing, he thinks, he tucks that thought away. “But yeah, gotta love a grim reminder that not every damaged hunter’s the kind you bring home.” 

“That hasn’t been me for a long time,” he pipes up, giving you a dangerous look. You brush his concerns away with a wave of your hand. 

“I know, Jay, I know, but my point still stands,” you look briefly to the medical station nearby. Joel assumes it’s where the grim deed took place. 

“You kill ‘im?” He waits for your confirmation, it comes like a sinking stone with a nod. 

You’re not a killer, he knows that. It took him a long time to realize he wasn’t one, either. But circumstance makes monsters out of good people. He used to scrub his hands furiously, battling phantom blood that wouldn’t wash out. Joel used to wonder how this happened, he used to be a carpenter. 

And you used to be a nursing student, good at your job but stuck using decades-old suture techniques with no new advances in medical science. He can see you trying, straining against the desire to be unkind. You’ve never lost to the darkness yet, Joel’s almost jealous. 

“You didn’t have a choice,” he tries. You don’t want to hear it, he can tell by your expression. So, he pivots. “Still, I guess it’s good you remember how to do it.” 

“Please,” you scoff again, like he’s done something silly and asked for ice. “Like I’d forget. I’m from Detroit,” you blow on your coffee and take a sip, “I’ll fuckin’ kill you.” 

The sound he makes is strangled, isn’t broken. It’s a laugh, his own and the first you’ve ever heard from him. You have the good sense not to visibly stiffen or react. It’s lovely, his laugh, you realize with a dawning sadness that you might never hear it again. 

Coffee’s drunk in silence after that, so diluted with boiling water that it’s redundant and cloying. But to Joel it tastes like one of the many places he might’ve called home when he still had the hope to do so. Scratchy sheets and roach-filled sofas and sweet instant coffee is comforting when combined with you. 

He doesn’t rush through this, not this time. Joel won’t have this for months, perhaps years. And even if he feels nothing, even if every ounce of remorse because you’ve never heard him laugh has been beaten out of him— he knows to enjoy this. He knows that when inevitably you want to hold him (despite the encroaching dark, the sticky blood) he’ll enjoy that, too. 

Joel’s been empty, lonely, he still is. But you want to love him, he’s not stupid enough to stand fully in your way. Although he’ll admit he has no idea why you’d want to, romance has always been slim pickings where he’s concerned. 

Still, he supposes as you move to lean against his shoulder, you’re a strong contender for the one who’s loved him best. Even if you’re strange, even if you talk about everyone you meet like they’re a friend you haven’t met.

In retrospect, he understands why he’s your favourite. He comes back, he proves with every forward lunge towards your factory when he’s hurt that people return when you let them go. 

You’re careful not to lean too heavily against him, to put pressure on the gash running the width of his stomach. 

“Keep that wound clean, okay? I’ll send you back with a few extra bottles of rubbing alcohol,” you tell him like he’s leaving now instead of tomorrow morning. He’s gonna have a lot of ground to cover, and people in the city’ll need old first aid kits. 

“Appreciate it,” he huffs. Joel does his best to put an arm around you, but the pain’s too sharp. He’s passive after that. 

“I mean, you could stay a little longer than just tonight,” you try. It’s push and pull, he wants you in the city and you want him out here. Fear’s a great divider. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he doesn’t snap, at least. He looks over at you, taking up half the couch with how you’re sprawled out. “Wouldn’t do to just drop of the face of the earth. Smugglin’s not—”

“I know,” you cut him off, “just wishful thinking.” 

As much as he wants to ask why, he knows the answer. You, for reasons unknown, find him good company. He’ll take it. You finish off your coffee and stop putting pressure on his shoulder with your cheek. 

“You wanna go to bed?” You ask after a brief silence. With how little conversation there’s to be had out here, Joel’s surprised you’re still a chatterbox. 

He thinks about Bill, alone with that whole stretch of suburb around him. He talks to himself, no doubt about it, Joel wonders if you do the same. 

Still, it’s clear you’d rather talk to him. He nods like he approves. Sleep sounds nice right about now, scratchy sheets and all. 

It’s a slow migration from couch to bed. Joel figures he could stop it dead in its tracks by offering to sleep in the spot he’s sat in this whole time. He’d effectively break your heart by doing so, he knows, so he stays quiet. And maybe, deep down, he’s looking forward to being close to you. 

You ease him onto the unmade bed, helping him shuck his boots and jacket. When he’s slightly more vulnerable, Joel shifts and tries to exist comfortably on his side. It’s not too bad if he doesn’t move, he settles into the tried-and-true sleeping position that protects his damaged vitals. 

The candles around the room are blown out as you make your rounds. You check the locks on the door twice and bolt the window shut. It’s not secure here, nowhere’s ever fully secure, but he could feel safe. 

While he bears witness to your nightly ritual, Joel catches himself mourning the loss of the infrequent, terse lovemaking you two get up to. His injuries are severe enough that any amount of reckless thrusting or movement could tear stitches. There’s no familiar ache anywhere but in his gut, whatever old drugs you gave him to help with the pain leave him sleepy and unwilling. 

Still, you curl up right at his back, chest to his shoulder blades. He resists the urge to push you off, it’s been a while and Tess doesn’t get up in his shit like this. You seem to need it, though, your hunger for contact is clear. 

It’s a little stifling how you press yourself against him. Your arms wrap loosely around his middle, just above his bandages. You’ll insist on changing them come morning, despite their scarcity. For anyone else, Joel figures you’d risk infection.

The heavy weight of a warm body behind him doesn’t feel incorrect for long. Decades bleed away easily when confronted with memories of how life was before. It’s so easy to slip back into that feeling of normalcy, being touched and adored by a lover all through the night. The shock he’ll experience tomorrow when things return to bitter, dirty and unkind will be difficult. 

As much as Joel’s tried to train himself out of feeling (and he has gone thoroughly numb inside), you’re good at dismantling borders. He finds himself shifting back against you, putting his hand over yours and muttering thanks when you pull the blanket over your entangled bodies. 

Your lips are at the back of his neck, your nose presses to the base of his skull. 

“I missed you,” you say it once every visit, he can anticipate when it comes. 

“Yeah,” he leaves it at that and tries very hard to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. 

He’s not dead, not yet. You pulled him inside and steeled your nerves in the face of blood and infection. You dug around inside him until his pulse stuttered back to life. Joel lies there, staring at the kitchenette in the dark. He missed you, too.


End file.
